Chapter Eight

“Bad omen.”

Since Eamon suffered none of the superstitious maladies infecting most of his troops, his observation hit Duncan like a gut punch. Although he could not see his friend through the cottony dampness enshrouding his entire army, he glanced to his left. “For them, fog muffles sound, distorts it.”

“If you say so, it must be so, but I don’t like it.”

Duncan did not like it either, but he kept his misgivings to himself. This pass was supposed to be easier on the horses and men than the steep rocky direct route. He planned on having some fight left when they reached the enemy camp. What he did not plan on was a foggy shroud so thick he could not see past his horse’s ears.

He checked his compass again, bringing the instrument right up to his nose. The compass confirmed they were moving northeast. Fighting men wanted, no, needed decisive leadership. Even wrong decisions inspired more confidence than waffling. Duncan ordered battle formation to keep from losing his men in the fog. A little prickle of apprehension raised the fine hairs on the back of Duncan’s neck. Trusting the climb out of the valley would see the fog behind them, he pressed on.

****

Men did nothing but argue. Faelan’s patience snapped. Why didn’t they listen? She pointed to her hastily drawn map again. “The blue-jackets will attack our flank here, through a narrow pass between these two hills.”

“Why?” Nicholas challenged. “If he is here,” he jabbed the spot on the map, “crossing the mountain makes more sense.”

Thick, that was Nicholas. What had she ever seen in him? He didn’t listen. None of them listened. “The valley route saves their horses, nitwit. They are nothing without their horses. He’ll come out of the pass along this ridge and hit our northern flank. He has two infantry regiments, a compliment of archers and hurlers, and the entire blue-jacket cavalry.”

Faelan turned to her uncle. “I have seen what his cavalry can do. We have two choices: flee or attack. Whatever you decide to do, do not remove southward. He said battlefield conditions to the south favored cavalry.”

“Come now.” Nicholas raised his arms and let them fall. “You exaggerate the man’s ability, Lannie.”

“No, Nicholas. I don’t. I—”

“What do you suggest we do?” Her brother cut in. “You’ve been close to the man the past few days.”

Faelan smiled. Thank God for Quinn, because if Nicholas said another word, she would punch him. Shifter or not, striking a man was not a good idea. “Intercept him. Turn him back before he climbs out of the valley.”

“You surprise me, woman.” Nicholas mocked. “How will we mere mortals stop this god of war? Will silver-tipped arrows do the trick, do you think?”

“Enough Nicholas,” the general interrupted. “You’ve done well, niece. Leave us to consider your words.”

Leave us!

So much for equality, why was she doing this? Faelan fumed as she stared out over the camp. Angry tears burned her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. She never cried. Quinn’s soft familiar tread sounded behind her. She did not turn. His hands rested on her shoulders with comforting warmth, and he bought his lips close to her ear. His breath tickled her cheek.

“Have you gobbled up your little field marshal yet?”

Smiling in spite of her pique, Faelan elbowed her brother in the stomach. A satisfying grunt rewarded her. “I’ve only been there two days. I’ve barely tasted him.”

“So you’re taking things slow?”

Faelan laughed. “Shut your mouth.”

“I made you laugh.”

“You always do.” Faelan turned, leaned unto her brother’s comfort. “Nicholas is a jackass!”

“Nicholas is jealous. He sees the enemy field marshal impresses you.” Her brother cocked a meaningful brow at her. “We all do.”

Quinn tucked Faelan’s hand into the crook of his elbow. “Walk with me.”

They walked in companionable silence until they had left the stench of camp and the buzz of flies far behind in favor of the cool dappled light of the forest. Quinn found a fallen tree and sat, pulling Faelan with him. He took a breath.

“You have done us a good service today, Lannie. It is enough.”

“Enough?” Faelan pulled away from her brother. “How can you say that? How can you even think it? I saved lives today, and I can do more. Much more.”

Quinn said nothing. Faelan could almost see his mind working, searching for words that would not anger her. Finally, he took her hand in both of his. “I can see you will not be turned from your course. Take care, little sister. I doubt this paragon of a field marshal will be quite as generous to a spy as he is to a stray dog.”

****

Nicholas smiled as his raiding party scrambled over the rocky foothills. Convincing the chief-men to let him raid the blue-jacket camp had been easy. After all, according to Faelan, the bulk of that army was in the pass, no reason not to help themselves to some of what their enemy had way too much of.

Nicholas believed Faelan’s report. She was competent enough…for a woman. He regretted he wouldn’t get a chance to kill the field marshal, but razing his camp was almost as good. Anyone with eyes could see Faelan thought more of the man than she ought. Damned if he would lose the flat-chested bitch after all the time he had invested in her. The woman needed a firm hand, a strong master, someone to control her radical notions. Nicholas intended to be that someone.

****

Duncan squinted into the clammy whiteness surrounding him. “Another hour and we will be out of this.”

“How can you tell?” Eamon mopped his brow on his sleeve, and hauled himself onto a fresh mount.

The elf’s sarcasm stung. “I deployed our remounts two miles from the assent. We left camp an hour past sundown. I judge it is now about two hours before dawn. We are making two miles an hour, give or take. Another hour and we will climb out of this fog. We may even beat the dawn.” He felt the weight of Eamon’s stare “If I’m wrong, the sun will burn it off.”

“You’re never wrong.” Eamon tapped his heels to his horse’s flanks.

But Duncan was wrong.

Fog clung to them like jealous lovers. The trail narrowed. Broad to a goatherd did not always translate into broad for an army. Duncan reformed his men into half wedges, then again to three-man swallowtails, riding nose-to-tail. The infantry marched three abreast. Terrain considered, Duncan supposed he should be grateful, but still…he could not shake the prickly feeling on the back of his neck.

“Do you feel it?”

Trust Eamon to come right to the point. “Yes. Look—"

A wall of netting sprang up in Duncan’s path cutting off his words. His horse reared. An arrow struck Eamon high in the shoulder rocking the elf in his saddle. Bird’s saber flashed. The sergeant major’s curses filled the air. Without room to maneuver, Duncan’s men struggled to control their eager mounts.

More trip wires snapped. More nets rose trapping Duncan’s army inside the narrow pass. The infantry hunkered down, turtle-shelling their shields against an onslaught of arrows showering down from the rocks above.

The attack focused on the cavalry. Horses screamed. Men cursed. Thallasi archers returned fire, shooting high into the rocks.

“Fall back.” Duncan shouted. “Cut your way out.” Charging the netting, he slashed at the support lines. “Pick up the wounded. Fall back.” He had a sudden vision of losing his entire cavalry in this pass. “Move! Move! Move!"

It was an ugly rout, not one of the orderly retreats they practiced. The cavalry poured out of the pass and didn’t slow until they reached the remount station. Several of Duncan’s wounded could not make the long ride back to camp. Duncan order troopers to build stretchers. He never left men behind. He would not start now. Wranglers rushed to the injured horses. The enemy had not pursued them, but Duncan posted sentries anyway. Just because they had not, did not mean they would not.

One of the wranglers thrust a cup into his hands as Duncan ducked into their lean-to. He downed it in a gulp and coughed. The sting of the straight whiskey made tears spring to his eyes. He slumped to the ground beside Bird. Across from him, Eamon leaned against a hay bale. Eyes closed, face white as the sling holding his arm, the elf looked like death. Duncan shivered. Fire and ashes, I might have lost Eamon.

As if reading his thoughts, Eamon opened his eyes. A tight, pained smile touched his lips. “I’m not badly damaged, Aimery Duncan.” Eamon touch his own cheek nodding at Duncan. “You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” Duncan mirrored the gesture then stared stupidly at his bloody fingertips.

One of the wranglers handed him a clean cloth. “An arrow must have nicked you, sir. But no worries a little scar won’t spoil your pretty face.”

As if it mattered. Duncan applied pressure to his cheekbone. Half the time he thought a disfiguring injury would be a blessing, but there would be no scar. The condition would see to that. Even the tattoo Eamon and Eoin had given him last year had already begun to melt into his skin.

“What the hell happened out there, Shug?”

Duncan’s gaze shifted to his sergeant major. Bird sounded like he felt every one of his forty-five years. The man’s vulgarism could slide this once without discipline. Laying the bloody cloth across his knee, Duncan dragged both hands through his hair. “Obviously they expected us.”

“You think someone betrayed us?”

“What else is there to think?”

“It has to be someone highly placed.”

“Yes. It does.”

Bird whistled. “Not even Rickman hates you this much.” He gave a wry smile. “Maybe he does. Why is that I wonder?”

“Dogs hate cats. Cats hate mice. Ioni hate Addiri.” Duncan shrugged. “It is nature’s way.”

“Right.” Bird’s eyes narrowed. “Rickman’s loyal enough to his Principality. He’d never do anything to undermine the war effort.”

“But if Duncan were—if something happened to him...” Eamon met the sergeant major’s gaze. “Perhaps whoever sold us out wants Kree Fawr in command. That is how the council in Elhar voted, and isn’t it what Rickman wants?”

“Says he wants,” Lady Bird chuckled. “My Captain would have had the general’s head in a basket months ago. Shug is the best thing that ever happened to the man’s military career. He’s just too stupid to realize it.”

Outside, a sentry yelled, “Rider coming in!”

Hauling himself to his feet, Duncan hurried out. He recognized Roland at a distance by the boy’s streaming yellow hair and the way he clung burr-like to the saddle-less horse. He braced for more bad news while Sergeant Major “Bird” Falconer called for the able-bodied men to mount up.

“The AOD overran the camp, sir!” Roland brought his lathered horse to a halt. The boy rode one of Captain Fawr’s golden-coated crossbreeds. Duncan noted this because his mind stored up useless insignificant facts. He could not stop it.

“They raided the stock pens. Some of us drove the remounts into the hills. Isem and the seniors put up a hell of a fight, but they took some of our medical staff hostage, sir. Then they set fire to the infirmary. We couldn’t get all the wounded out, hard as we tried.”

****

Smoke hung above the trees. Fragmented shouts drifted though the stillness. Duncan prepared himself mentally for what was to come. Emotionally, the ruin of his camp ripped his soul to shreds.

A handful of soot-streaked men still worked, tamping out smoldering fires near what had been the infirmary. The remaining surgeons toiled over the burn victims who clung stubbornly to life. The stench of charred flesh burned Duncan’s nostrils until he tasted it at the back of his throat. What kind of monsters made war on children and burned men in their sick beds? It ran contrary to every rule of war Duncan knew. Outrage roared through him leaving a trail of anger so white-hot it cauterized his heart.

Tents were down all over camp. Weapons and gear littered the ground. The stock pens stood empty. Duncan spotted a few stray sheep and goats grazing on the hillside.

It was the worst blunder of his military career. Duncan felt it to his bones.

His own tent had sustained minor fire damage. Personal papers and books littered the ground. Duncan swung his leg over his horse’s neck dismounting cavalry fashion, his back to the horse, and lent his strength to the men trying to raise the front section of his tent. As the canvas came up, he glimpsed cadet livery in the rubble.

Crushing pain pinched Duncan’s gut. He rushed inside and hoisted the table off his cadet. Falling to his knees, Duncan pulled the young man into his lap. Tad, his senior cadet, had barricaded himself behind the table to guard the weapons research Duncan kept in his private chamber. The boy died for his effort, a spear through his heart. The monsters had taken his ears as trophies. Tad was seventeen.

Duncan held the boy against his chest and rocked while his internal temperature spiraled out of control. Sweat beaded his forehead. He pressed his lips into a grim line stifling the roar building in his chest. He wanted to rip his enemy apart barehanded. He wanted to burn down the world. Hot tears stung his eyes. He stifled them too. Tears did not avenge the dead.